Precisely how this would benefit the studio, I’ve never been able to figure out. Sure, some intern in the production office tossed out the countless psycho Ben letters. We heard that in court. But I have no interest in establishing the studio’s culpability in my attack—especially after having endured all those court appearances associated with Ben’s lengthy trial.
Other rumors: that it was all just a publicity stunt, and I’m perfectly fine, living somewhere off the coast of France. That one sounds fairly appealing to me, but unfortunately someone’s always spotting me around town. Rebecca Sightings, that’s what they call them on the Internet message boards. Like last month when a woman apparently noticed me at my gym, then hightailed it back online to detail my entire workout routine. It’s plain unsettling to read a description of my recent weightlifting session as told by someone watching me from across the floor of Gold’s. And then she did four sets of overhead chest flies. She was really working hard! The scars don’t actually look as bad as we’ve been told by our sources…
Trevor tells me to stop trolling for this stuff, but I can’t seem to help myself. I’ve lived in this town long enough that I can’t entirely dismiss the rumor mill, and I guess that extends to the fan community. It’s not ego, although I do think it helps to have a healthy one if you want to make it in Hollywood. No, it’s morbid curiosity; the insatiable need to know what they’re saying about me now that I’m gone. They. The masses, the invisible people I can’t see, but who are always out there, peering in through the one-way glass at me. Who knows, maybe I want to be sure I’m not slowly cultivating a new Ben McAllister somewhere out in Middle America.
Bending low, I finish a deep stretch of my hamstrings, then reach into my shorts pocket for the garage-door opener. It’s the only way into my apartment, and I chose to live here after my recovery for that very reason. No more unsecured front entryway, where anyone might sneak up on me when I least expect it—and where I might just die.
Watching the slow, ruminative rise of the old door, I can practically feel the eyes of my landlady, Mona Malone, studying me from the main house. Mona never leaves her home, at least not very often. Ninety-two years old, she was one of the very late stars of the silent movies, and a legendary beauty at that. Now she spends her time regaling her bridge partners with tales of old Hollywood, and doing a really good imitation of Norma Desmond. I can only hope I’m as sharp and alive at her age, although hopefully not harboring quite so many regrets.
Mona also likes to advise me over her nightly martinis, which she sips poolside. “There are other plastic surgeons, Rebecca darling,” she’ll counsel. Or, “You should sell your story, if there’s someone offering. They won’t come around forever, you know.”
And there have been offers, believe me. Just imagine. A Lifetime Original: The Rebecca O’Neill Story. I don’t think so, thank you very much. That’s all I’d need to activate the next Ben-wannabe, the one I’m always afraid will emerge from the bushes of my life. When I was a girl back in Georgia, fantasizing about fame, I never once imagined the dark side of the dream. Now I often wonder how many stalkers Gavin de Becker must have. Weird, but I’m sure it’s true that the world’s greatest stalking expert has his own militant troop of crazies.
I dart into my garage, quickly lowering the door again, watching to be sure no one follows me, and then I jog up the small flight of stairs to my apartment. The phone is ringing, and I can’t help the hopeful flutter my heart gives at the sound—the wish that somehow, even now, it might be Michael. Of course he’d have called before the weekend, not waited until Sunday night. My head knows that; it’s getting my heart to listen that’s the problem. Clearly he misunderstood my hesitancy the other day, must have thought I wasn’t interested, when really I was just scared to let him get too close.
As I turn the key in the lock, the ringing ceases, and I sprint to check the caller ID box.
Oh crap.
Not Michael, no. Dang it all if it isn’t Jake Slater—even after such a long time, I still know that cell phone number by heart.
I lift the receiver, already checking to see if a voice mail has registered, and then the phone rings again, beeping through my call waiting. That’s so Jake. Ever the actor, he can never get his voice mail right in a single take.
Clicking over, I answer. I’m already working to project my displeasure with him that he’s phoning me after all this time. What is it now, more than a year since we last spoke? Almost three years since he dumped me?
“Uh, Rebecca?” comes the deep, rumbling voice, understandably confused by my cranky tone. Not Jake.
“Yes?” Panicked, I glance down at the caller ID box, which might have been a smart thing to do in the first place. Alexander Richardson. Interesting—he hasn’t changed the billing name yet.
“It’s Michael. Michael Warner?” His throaty voice turns up at the end, a question mark, as if he thinks I might have forgotten him already.